


don't want to be your regret

by seditonem



Category: The Losers (2010) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which chris is pining, and zoe's just being zoe (i wrote this because it interested approx one person: me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't want to be your regret

Zoë Saldana is not someone to be taken lightly. Even her handshake means business; not too firm, but firm enough that Chris gets the message:  _I'm hot, I'm a woman, and if you think I'll take any shit from you I'll roundhouse kick you in the mouth and you'll wake up without your balls._  
  
He kinda likes that.   
  
#  
  
So he's not the only one who's staring at her ass on set. Sure, the film is about five dudes getting revenge for getting stabbed in the back, but Chris isn't kidding himself about the reason why most people will see  _The Losers_. And the reason they'll be seeing  _The Losers_  is Zoë Saldana's fine ass in red jeans.   
  
Between takes, when she's listening to her iPod, drinking a frappe with a straw, and everyone within a two mile radius is trying not to be too obvious while they’re staring, Chris kids himself into thinking they're gonna be great friends. The kind of friends who meet up for a quick lunch and neither minds when there’s silence, because it’s a comfortable silence.  
  
He sighs.   
  
As if you can be friends with a woman like that. Especially when, y’know, you sort of want to strip her down and stretch her out over your bed and make her toes curl with your tongue.   
  
He really wishes he was gay sometimes.  
  
#  
  
"So this whole, like, missile thing," he says, one day, when they're sitting on a roof waiting for the next take. Zoë pauses, her hand in midair, about to continue rubbing lotion onto her elbows (because apparently the skin there is tender, and holy hell he can think of a better place for her to be tender), and looks at him. "It's kinda phallic, y'know?" he continues, and then sits and waits for the awkward silence that happens afterwards to end. He really walked into that one, he thinks.   
  
"I guess," shrugs Zoë. "But for most of the movie you're with four other guys, all of you wearing dubious clothing – especially you in your pink shirt - and firing off guns at the slightest sound. So if I'm sayin' something with this missile, what exactly are  _you_  sayin'?"   
  
She's gone before he can think of anything to say, the smell of her body lotion hanging in the air all around him.  
  
It stays with him for the rest of the day, like an afterimage of scent.  
  
#  
  
Maybe he should just call his brother. His brother probably knows Zachary Quinto, and since Zoë and Zach are practically BFFs, maybe they can all end up at a party somewhere where the drinks are free and the women are even freer. And maybe Zoë will wear those amazing leather pants he’s heard so much about.   
  
(So he saw the pictures. There’s this thing called the internet, and Chris likes to use it to its full potential.)  
  
Maybe pigs will fly.  
  
#  
  
There's gotta be a breaking point, though, in any situation, and that comes when they're filming the elevator scene.  
  
Or, the  _let's give Chris a reason to strip without pissing off his publicist_  scene, as Jeff likes to call it when he’s joking with the make-up girls (who’re all head over heels for him, and quietly shun Chris after that one time he tried to chat up five of them at the same time).  
  
When they've done the two billion takes of the scene and Chris is walking back, towel over his shoulder because of the heat of the day, heading for the nearest open space where he can smoke, he sees Zoë standing next to the director, slim arms crossed over her chest, looking amused.  
  
"Nice take," she smirks. He wants to lick at the corners of her mouth.  
  
"Thanks," he nods. He can feel her gaze burning onto him as he walks away.  
  
#  
  
“You need to stop pining like some dog without its mistress,” Jeff says. His hat is tipped over his eyes and he’s lying back in a chair, catching some sun as they do a script run-through.  
  
“What?” Chris blinks, feeling suddenly vulnerable.  
  
“Man,” Idris says, “it’s a little pathetic.”   
  
“Woah, woah,” Chris says, holding up his hands, “let’s hold up for a second. Someone tell me what the hell’s goin’ on here?”   
  
Inside, a red light is flashing, and Chris is struggling not to go into Panic and Freak Out mode.   
  
“You’re about as subtle as a bull in a china shop,” Jeff mumbles, settling further into his chair.  
  
“That’s just unfair,” sighs Chris.  
  
“Hey, I don’t blame you,” Idris nods. “She’s hot.”  
  
“She’s probably also able to decapitate me just by thinking it,” Chris mutters. Idris smirks.  
  
“I don’t doubt that.”  
  
#  
  
The horrible, honest truth is that outside of work, Chris knows nothing about Zoë. It’s as if she appears in the doorway, ready to shoot, but if you followed her out at the end of the day she’s disappear like smoke in the wind. He starts trying to remember things about her, like her favourite kind of coffee, the songs she’ll tap her feet along to, what she chooses for lunch.  
  
It’s almost stalker-ish, actually, he decides, and tries to stop before he turns into Edward Cullen.  
  
#  
  
On his way through town, Chris drops in at a gym, having shaved off the ridiculous beard and gotten rid of the Harry Potter-esque glasses that playing Jensen required. He runs for a while, feeling like he’s finally on familiar territory, and then lifts weights for a while.  
  
He’s vaguely aware of someone watching him, out of the corner of his eye, but his whole body aches by the end of the session and he doesn’t give it much thought, slipping quietly into a shower and driving to the hotel room he’s staying in as the light begins to fail in the west.   
  
#  
  
“D’you want to meet up for dinner?”   
  
He’s speechless. Talking seems like an unachievable Olympic sport.  
  
“Yeah, sure, where?”   
  
#  
  
She’s wearing red.   
  
 _Shit_ , he thinks. He loves red. He loves women in red even more. Red halter-neck top, red skirt, red heels. She walks like she was born to be this tall, this slim, this feline.   
  
He remembers to get her chair for her, remembers to order wine (she smiles at that), and even though it’s just a quiet little Mexican place where they eat the most ridiculous food and order silly cocktails like “Iguana Wana”, he thinks he’s doing ok.   
  
They talk about work, about family. Chris feels slightly awkward; compared to him, her career’s been a roller-coaster. She smiles when he says that, wiping her lips on a napkin. He pours her some more wine, noting the sway in his arm.  _Probably time to cut myself off_ , he thinks, and when their fingers touch as their glasses clink and a fission of heat blooms down his arm, he thinks  _Yes, definitely time to cut myself off._    
  
But who can blame him for drinking when he’s memorised the curve of her lips on her wine-glass, and as the evening wears on they’re doing nothing but talking?  
  
#  
  
“I can’t drive like this,” she mutters, her nose crinkled adorably. She leans hot against his side, the material of her top crinkling up.   
  
“Fine,” he sighs, amused, and gets them a cab. She slurs an address – he didn’t think she could even  _get_  this drunk, but then they did have a lot of wine – and when they arrive he’s pulled out of his seat by her hand on his shirt. The cab driver winks at him and drives off, grinning, and Chris has an odd feeling of being out of his depth.   
  
“God fucking  _damn_  keys,” Zoë mutters, and finally manages to get her door open. Chris hesitates on the step, and then she turns around.   
  
There are no lights on in her house, just one bulb in the hallway, and she’s silhouetted there in red. Talk about chasing the devil, Chris thinks, and follows her inside before he can think twice.  
  
“I think you need some coffee,” he says, quietly, and finds her kitchen. She’s got his favourite blend in her cupboard, and when she sits down at the kitchen table she sprawls her arms and torso over the wood, like she’s asleep. It seems like she’s got no control over her body when she’s drunk.   
  
“Drink,” he says, severely, and she does.   
  
“Nice,” she whispers.   
  
“You’re impossible,” he says, when he thinks she’s not listening, leaning against his chest.   
  
“I know,” she murmurs.   
  
#  
  
He stays the night, lying next to her in bed, on top of the covers, watching her sleep. At seven in the morning he leaves, calling a cab and getting back to his hotel in time to pack and get ready to leave.   
  
His phone beeps.   
  
 _coffee? xx_  
  
#  
  
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says, smiling slightly, like she’s amused at her own behaviour. Chris chucks his empty coffee cup into the bin and stands with his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward. He should go before he misses his flight, really.   
  
“Hey, it’s no big deal, I’ve done that countless times myself,” he reminds her. “I had a good time, anyway.”   
  
“Me too,” she grins. “I’ll see you around, right? Don’t be a stranger.”   
  
“Zoë,” he says, and catches her elbow.   
  
It’s lucky they’re not on a crowded street, because he can’t help kissing her.   
  
And she kisses back.

**Author's Note:**

> i think the title is from a song by the hush sound? i can't remember.


End file.
